


ur a firework

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: AU where they lived, Feelings, Fireworks, Fourth of July, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Kavinsky and Prokopenko confront their fears and find some *ahem* sexual healing





	ur a firework

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Katy Perry and got feels

Fireworks make his pulse race and his hands clammy. He gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the shakes, too.

He used to fucking love fireworks, for their destructiveness and their short-lived brilliance. It was the perfect metaphor for his existence. Or so said some drunk Aglionby boy trying to impress him at one of his debauched parties. K had grabbed the front of the boy’s stained Polo shirt and told him to shut up before kissing him against the side of the Mitsubishi. He can’t remember the boy’s name or face, can’t remember anything but his stupid metaphor and that he tasted improbably like mint juleps. Shit, maybe he had kissed Dick Gansey? Maybe it never happened and it was just another muddled pipe dream from a fucked up year of nightmares and bad decisions.

“Joseph?”

The voice is soft, familiar. Slim fingers encircle his wrist, holding onto him but not too tight.

“Mhmm.” He can’t manage words. Another firework booms in the distance, the noise echoing off the mountains.

“You good?”

“Mhmm, yeah.”

The fingers tightened the slightest bit and then the boy is leaning into him, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, just above his ear.

“They bother me, too.” Proko’s tone is careful. Kavinsky hears him swallow, feels him jolt when another rocket goes off next door. “Fucking rednecks,” Proko mutters.

“C’mere.” Kavinsky wraps his arms around Proko’s waist and hauls him into his lap. They sprawl on a flimsy, reclining deckchair beside the pool. They have the place to themselves for the night; everyone else has abandoned them for Henrietta parties and whatever mischief the summer Aglionby boys have managed to get into.

Proko places his palm over Kavinsky’s racing heart and stares at his chest for a long moment before daring to meet Kavinsky’s gaze. “Is this for me or the fireworks?” Proko asks. He shifts on K’s lap, settling so that his full weight is pinning Kavinsky down. The plastic creaks beneath them.

“Baby, _you’re_ a firework,” Kavinsky teases, knowing it’s a stupid line from an old, overplayed pop song. It still earns a crooked smile from Proko and a kiss with tongue. Kavinsky pushes his hands under Proko’s sweat damp tank and up his back. Proko’s skin is hot and sticky. They’ve been outside most of the afternoon and evening, alternating between dips in the pool and hiding in the shade of the enormous pool umbrellas.

Proko arches his back when Kavinsky scrapes his short nails down his shoulders to the small of his back. Kavinsky kisses the side of his neck, sucks a hickey on his skin, tasting salt and chlorine. Proko’s breath catches and he clutches at K’s shoulders, grinding against him with purpose.

The _pop pop pop_ of fireworks and the occasional _boom_ makes them both startle and then return to kissing and grasping and writhing with frantic urgency. It was probably a stupid idea, trying to force themselves to get over their fears. Probably. Except the desire burning through Kavinsky’s veins has eclipsed any lingering unease sparked by the fireworks.

He hisses between clenched teeth as Proko wriggles on top of him and grabs at the front of his swim trunks. It’s only a matter of moments before Proko’s hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking him hard and fast. Kavinsky does the same, quickly unlacing the front of Proko’s trunks and taking him in hand.

It’s familiar and comforting and so damn good for all that it’s a just hurried hand job. Proko kisses him, more tender than he usually does. Kavinsky can barely hear the fireworks over the sound of his heart pounding and their combined breathing and Proko’s quiet gasps.

He comes before Proko, the rainbow explosions of fireworks flashing behind Proko’s heaving shoulders. His grip tightens and then it’s Proko’s turn, his voice raspy when he chokes out a strained and fervent, “ _Joseph_.”

Proko collapses next to him on the chair, the two of the pressed together in a hot, sweaty tangle. Kavinsky grabs Proko’s chin and tilts his face up, giving him a soft, lingering kiss.

“Happy Fourth, baby,” Kavinsky murmurs, “we fucking made it.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


End file.
